Dear Columbus,

Consider this a love letter, even if it begins with a harsh reality.

A little over a week ago, a police officer stood in front of cameras and lied. He lied loudly into a microphone, attempting to plant evidence on my character by fabricating the cost of my suit and the brand of my shoes, all to set up a rehearsed line calling me a “poverty pimp.”

For those unfamiliar with the term, a “poverty pimp” is someone accused of profiting personally from the communities they claim to serve. It has clear historically racial undertones and that is without question. It is a slur designed to discredit the messenger before the message lands and before change can actually be achieved. It is a term and tool of distraction.

The accusation does not survive an honest review of the record. Fifteen years of cases, the families I have stood next to, and the division directives and policies that have changed because of those cases speak to who I am and what this work has cost me. Brian Steel, the head of the local Fraternal Order of Police, chose those words because the playbook required him to, and because he is very willing to lie to run the plays that help officers in trouble, get out of trouble.

Poetic justice is an outcome in which vice is punished and virtue rewarded, usually in a manner peculiarly or ironically appropriate. What I have not been able to understand is why, in trying to make me out to be a poverty pimp, Steel would so easily open himself up to becoming everything the officers he represents do not want their spokesperson to be. A police officer willing to lie in specific detail. To fabricate prices. To fabricate brands. And then, in the same breath, to contrast the villain he had just painted against himself, the hero in a Jos. A. Bank shirt.

He criminalized my clothing. He made me a suspect. He tried to permanently damage my credibility and displace me as a Black man in this movement, as someone who actually, and quite literally, has skin in the game. I have worked hard for 15 years of a legal career to lead with honesty, integrity, and ethics. In just a few seconds of a rant, he attempted to rip that to shreds based entirely on lies.

The chaos that has resulted must be called out, because it is directly his responsibility. The danger cannot be understated. Emmett Till was beaten to death based on a lie. Lies have devastating consequences. For the head of the FOP to brazenly lie about a family’s civil rights attorney and the incoming President of NAACP Columbus Branch in a live press conference, in the aftermath of an historic police shooting conviction, should be disqualifying behavior.

I am writing this letter because of what that moment revealed. Not about him. About a system that has been running the same playbook for generations, against the same kinds of people, in the same kinds of ways, with the same kinds of outcomes. Poverty pimp was just the poetic justice we needed to understand and move forward past the playbook.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

This playbook is as old as state-sanctioned violence against Black bodies in America itself.

It came for my great-great-great-grandfather, Jimmy Gibson, a sharecropper murdered by white men in the early 1900s with zero consequence. It came for my maternal grandfather, Roy Henderson, who survived only by outrunning a lynch mob in the 1950s. And it came for my paternal grandfather, Timothy Walton, who survived a 1966 police shooting only because the officer’s partner, O.J. Bradley, finally told the truth.

In each generation, the playbook came for my family and either worked or just barely missed. By inches. By moments. By the courage of one truth-teller, or by one fast set of legs. And here I am, in 2026, telling you that the same playbook just killed Casey Goodson Jr. as he walked into his own house, then allowed the officer to evade full accountability by criminalizing the victim while the head of the police union pushed a propaganda campaign to establish Jason Meade’s credibility over Casey’s.

This playbook survives by erasing humanity. Shitbags. Animals. Wolves. Occupational hazards. Pimps.

These are the dehumanizing words Brian Steel reaches for the moment a microphone is in front of him. He thinks in absolute binaries: Heroes vs. Villains. Humans vs. Wolves. Good vs. Evil. He cannot cite the racial statistics of violent crime while simultaneously using subhuman names, or invoking a “pimp and prostitute” dynamic, without blowing a deafening dog whistle. If he admits his officers’ victims are human, his entire system collapses.

You saw this double standard after the trial. Steel praised the Meade family for shedding few tears and called them outstanding people and “our side”, yet condemned the Goodsons for weeping after five and a half years of agonizing patience, dignity and pain. Meanwhile, Meade’s brother spit on a reporter during the first trial, and his father trash-talked me to my face inside the courtroom during the second. Because we do not call out in the same ways Steel is allowed to and certainly do not wish to villainize an entire family to manufacture a contrast between “good” and “bad,” those things go unreported.

We are depicted as antagonists despite never committing any wrongdoing, by someone who possesses unquestioned power to do so, while simultaneously protecting and portraying the true offenders as flawless.

Steel admitted that when a citizen simply looked at him in the hallway after the verdict and said, “we did this,” his immediate thought was, do you want to fight or something? That is not what an objectively reasonable officer thinks when a citizen speaks. If that is his first reflex in a courthouse hallway and he is the representation of what 4,500 Central Ohio police officers think and feel, does that make any of us feel safer? Does it instill an irrational fear of threat on both sides of a police encounter?

Is that a part of the playbook, too?

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The playbook does not only run on the dead. It very much runs on the living, as well.

Right now in Whitehall, the FOP is running it on Mayor Michael Bivens, the first Black mayor that city has ever elected; Councilmember Lori Elmore, the first Black councilmember Whitehall has ever elected; and Councilmember Amy Harcar, a white ally who advocates for Black and Brown communities.

The FOP has orchestrated smear campaigns and backed special recall elections against all three, framing routine policy disagreements as scandals and demanding investigations the facts do not support. Meanwhile, Whitehall Councilmember Gerald Dixon stands accused of sexual misconduct involving minors and faces no such recall campaign.

He was also endorsed by the FOP.

The same union that drags Black bailiffs and Black judges in press releases has gone to enormous lengths to defend officers indicted for homicide and convicted of murder, and to look the other way when their own endorsed candidates need criminal accountability. You start to see the pattern when you look at who they extend the benefit of the doubt to, who they do not, and who they flat out launch campaigns against.

He will do and say whatever it takes to achieve his goals. For years before each Meade trial, he called the case a political prosecution by special prosecutors with “far-left ideologies.” Both special prosecutors are registered Republicans. The framing of two 70-plus-year-old white Republican men politically prosecuting a hero is so ridiculous that exposing his dishonesty should be a bipartisan effort.

Steel has asked us to believe in a coordinated conspiracy between the Columbus Police, the FBI, the County Prosecutor’s Office, and the U.S. Attorney’s Office, all aligned to politically prosecute one officer. What he refuses to recognize is that his own theory draws attention to the glaring deficiencies in how criminal justice is administered every day, against people who do not have a union running press conferences for them. And there is poetic justice in the clarity of this: the man he has chosen as his poster child for criminal justice reform, at the expense of Casey Goodson Jr., is a Sheriff’s Deputy, a pastor, a former Marine, and a white male member of the FOP.

For years, multiple officers, separately and without coordination, have described hearing Brian Steel tell a room of his members: He will never lie, cheat, or steal from officers, but he will lie, cheat, and steal for police officers. The line is consistent across every retelling. That is why I have studied his words so carefully. This has never been a feud. It has been a reckoning with what he has told his own members he is willing to do. So I listen to all of the potential and actual lies, and I respond where I can with real truth.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

This letter marks the end of one phase of what I have been doing publicly and the beginning of a phase the work has been waiting on for over a decade.

I have watched him do this before. When I released Connor Grubb’s name after he killed Ta’Kiya Young, Steel retaliated by releasing random pictures of Ta’Kiya to the public in an effort to criminalize and blame her. He released a past police report while stating “Criminal history doesn’t make an incident less tragic but helps paint a picture what led to it.” That was also the moment he first called protesters “terrorists,” inventing its use in this conversation to position citizens as the bad guys in his binary frame. When I used it to refer to him, he cried foul.

What some have called a feud was never personal on my end. Every time I pushed back, I was inviting a public figure to respond with the precision and dignity his position demands. Every time, he chose instead to escalate, to lie, to dehumanize, and to distract. The pattern is his, not mine. I refused to look away from it, and that refusal is what some have mistaken for feuding. The lies cannot be allowed to speak louder than the truth.

I did it because John Lewis told us to get in good trouble, necessary trouble. I did it because there was a population in this city who had stopped paying attention and stopped believing we can touch the untouchables. I did it because there were young people who had never seen a Black professional push back at someone like the head of the FOP without flinching. I refused to teach by example that the only way to survive in proximity to civic bullying is to stay quiet and be respectable about politics.

My politics are revolutionary, and no matter my tactics or my approach, no one should ever question that.

I did it to stand on business.

Poverty Pimp was the poetic justice that confirmed the pattern. There is no more debate about what he does. The record now speaks for itself. That is the system. The question now is whether we still consent to it.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

It has been suggested that I should sit down privately with Brian Steel to make peace. Let me address the absurdity of that request. I am being asked to treat a man as an equal partner who has shown absolutely no reason for me to believe that he respects me, sees me, or hears me. Until his lack of credibility is addressed through a complete 180 and public apology for his years of behavior, or a change in FOP leadership, there is nothing to discuss. Not with him and I one-on-one.

I do invite him to be the guest speaker at our June NAACP General Body meeting though, since he has proudly claimed his NAACP membership throughout this process. I invite him to speak directly to our body, and to allow a Q&A from which I will remove myself as a participant. From there, my executive committee and general body can lead on how we shall proceed, and I will follow the will of the people. Whatever that will may be.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The silent majority of officers in this city wants what the community wants, and I have been in their corner. He will speak using his platform as head of the union, to act as if he is speaking for a monolith of officers who believe exactly what he says they believe. That is the thin blue line, actualized. He ostracized Whitehall officers, by name, and called them “free riders” for deciding to no longer pay union dues under his leadership.

He even applies the playbook internally to divide and conquer.

My refusal to engage with a dishonest operator should never be confused with a lack of support for rank-and-file officers. My representation of Columbus police officer Karl Shaw resulted in an amended division directive that has protected every officer who came after him for the past six years. That same advocacy drives my work on the Ethics and Equity Advisory Council for Axon Enterprise, impacting over 17,000 public safety agencies, and my recent lobbying on Capitol Hill alongside law enforcement officers such as one of the “toughest” sheriffs in the country for bipartisan de-escalation legislation supported by the National FOP and community organizers alike.

You can see this same commitment to systemic change in the recent passage of Issue 5. When Collin Jennings was killed during a mental health crisis in 2024, his family and I did not rush to demand a murder indictment. Instead, my former client Chana Wiley, whose brother Jaron Thomas died following a similar crisis with police in 2017, stepped in to help guide the family’s messaging toward policy reform and to amplify the work of the Columbus Safety Collective. Chana and the CSC helped push Issue 5 through to create an alternative crisis response system that protects both citizens in distress and responding officers. This is what we can achieve when we refuse to let progress be clouded by lies about “defunding the police” or wanting to send every officer who pulls a trigger to prison.

It should not require a decade of fighting to secure a commonsense win that helps everyone.

I do not need to sit down with Steel to deliver on the progress needed for my clients, my community, or my members. I have been working towards that this entire time and helped lead that progress despite his opposition. This has not been an emotional exercise on my part. Every step of this, I have been fully in control of what I believe to be necessary, and where I believe this moment needs to go, and I am moving based on the years of experience I have gained hearing the pain of the people, and working to turn that pain into power and progress.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

What is beginning now is the slow, careful building of the systems and institutions this city has needed all along.

Officers who can speak honestly without fearing reprisal. Families who can grieve without being smeared. Police chiefs who can refuse to be intimidated by the FOP. Citizens who can begin to disentangle the difference between law enforcement and the labor union that has been claiming to speak for them.

People who can hear truth louder than they can hear the lies.

A man who cannot admit error cannot help build anything that requires honesty. He has chosen his role. The rest of us get to choose ours.

Pastor Kevin Hairston said it cleaner than I can: Fear cannot be the foundation of civic leadership. Vision must be. I still believe Columbus has the potential to become one of the strongest examples of unity, collaboration, economic growth, and community healing in America, but only if we stop viewing one another as threats and start viewing one another as partners in shaping the future.

This is my love letter to Columbus.

To the Black community that has carried this work for generations.

To the officers who have wanted to speak and have not yet found the way.

To the families of the dead, who have given me the privilege of standing next to them in the worst moments of their lives.

To the white residents who have been waiting for a way to participate without being asked to abandon their own integrity.

To the moderate, the radical, the religious, the secular, the elected, the unelected, the young, and the old, all of whom have been told they have to pick a side in a fight he manufactured.

You do not have to pick the side he gave you. You can pick a different one. The side that says we are not threats to one another. The side that says our neighbor’s truth, however ugly, deserves the same dignity as our own and the same accountability as any other person. The side that says the foundation of this city has to be vision, not fear, and certainly not lies.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The lesson of Officer Bradley is the lesson my grandfather carried for the rest of his life: The truth, told once, by one person, can free another person to heal.

Let us name what is what. Let us trust each other to do it.

More than anything else, I want my leadership to be remembered as one that decentralized power in Columbus and returned all power to all of the people.

The truth shall set us free. These truths shall set us free.

Sean L. Walton, Jr.

Columbus, Ohio

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Ohio has a political scandal sitting in plain sight.

Not hidden in some dark corner of the internet. Not whispered about in back rooms. Not buried in anonymous Reddit threads or political gossip pages. It is out in the open: a sitting Ohio congressman, Representative Max Miller, is facing serious allegations from his ex-wife, Emily Moreno, the daughter of U.S. Senator Bernie Moreno, while Bay Village police continue investigating a report involving suspected child abuse.

And yet, in Columbus, the political capital of this state, the silence has been loud.

Miller, a Republican who represents Ohio’s 7th Congressional District, denies the allegations. No criminal charges have been filed. That matters. Allegations are not convictions, and custody fights can be ugly, complicated, and weaponized by all sides.

But that does not make this story private. Not anymore.

Not when police have confirmed an open investigation. Not when court filings are being reported by multiple outlets. Not when one Ohio Republican congressman is publicly accusing one Ohio Republican senator — his former father-in-law — of helping fuel a campaign to destroy him. And definitely not when the public officials involved are both backed by the same political movement that loves to lecture everyone else about family values, law and order, and protecting children.

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According to News 5 Cleveland, Bay Village police are investigating claims of suspected child abuse involving Miller’s young daughter. The outlet reported that a county child protective specialist went to police about “suspected child abuse,” and police said they would not release more details because the investigation remains open. Days later, Emily Moreno filed a motion asking a judge to make her the sole custodian of the couple’s 2-year-old daughter. In that filing, according to News 5, Moreno alleged Miller spoke to her in an aggressive and demeaning manner and engaged in dangerous physical behavior in the child’s presence.

Miller’s side has pushed back hard. His attorney, Larry Zukerman, gave News 5 what he described as a county document saying one report of alleged physical abuse involving Miller’s daughter was “unsubstantiated,” meaning no evidence of child abuse or neglect was found in that specific inquiry. Zukerman called the allegations false. Miller has also sought psychological evaluations in the custody case, arguing that Moreno has made repeated unsubstantiated claims.

That is the legal fog this story sits inside: one side saying there is a pattern of dangerous conduct, the other side saying the allegations are false and politically motivated.

But then the story got bigger.

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The Daily Beast reported that Emily Moreno has accused Miller of years of physical abuse, including an alleged February 1 custody exchange where she says Miller struck her while their daughter was present. The outlet reported that photographs obtained by the Daily Mail showed bruising and redness after alleged incidents, and that Bay Village police confirmed it responded to a child-abuse report that day and that the investigation remains open.

The Daily Beast also reported an earlier allegation from June 2024, where Moreno claims Miller threw boiling water at her during an argument while their daughter was home. Miller denies the allegations. His attorney told the Daily Mail that Miller denied the claims, and Miller later posted materials online that he said refuted the reporting.

People reported that Miller publicly accused Sen. Bernie Moreno of funding what Miller called a “malicious campaign” against him. People also reported that Miller called the Daily Mail report false, posted videos and screenshots he said supported his denial, and accused Emily Moreno of focusing on hurting him instead of caring for their child. Sen. Moreno had not publicly responded to Miller’s accusation, according to People’s May 8 report.

So let’s be clear about what we know and what we do not know.

We know there is an open police investigation.

We know there is an active custody battle.

We know Emily Moreno has made serious allegations.

We know Miller denies them.

We know at least one abuse-related inquiry was described by Miller’s attorney as unsubstantiated.

We know the political stakes are high because this is not just any family dispute. This involves a sitting member of Congress, the daughter of a sitting U.S. senator, and two prominent Ohio Republicans tied directly to Donald Trump’s political orbit.

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And we know something else: this story has not been treated by much of Ohio’s political media with the urgency it deserves.

News 5 Cleveland has reported on it. National outlets have picked it up. TiffinOhio.net published a detailed summary tying together the Daily Mail reporting, the Daily Beast confirmation, Miller’s denial, and the Ohio Democratic Party’s reaction. The Ohio Capital Journal appears to have included the matter in a May 12 news roundup, but as of this writing, Kin+ did not find a major standalone Columbus newsroom treatment matching the seriousness of the allegations.

That matters.

Because Columbus is where Ohio power gets laundered into respectability.

Columbus is where state officials hold press conferences about “values.” Columbus is where lawmakers pass bills in the name of children, parents, safety, morality, schools, bathrooms, sports, religion, police, and family. Columbus is where political operatives decide which scandals become breaking news and which ones get filed away as “personal matters.”

But when the allegation involves a powerful Republican man, a wealthy family network, a custody fight, and possible abuse, suddenly everybody wants to act like the room got quiet by accident.

It did not.

The silence is part of the story.

This is not about turning domestic violence allegations into a partisan weapon. That would be too cheap and too easy. Domestic violence is not a Democratic issue or a Republican issue. Abuse is abuse. Power is power. Courts are courts. Evidence is evidence. A denial is a denial. An investigation is an investigation.

But the public has a right to ask whether powerful men receive a different level of patience, protection, and presumption than everybody else.

The public has a right to ask whether Ohio’s political class would be this quiet if the accused official were a Democrat from Cleveland, Columbus, or Cincinnati.

The public has a right to ask whether “protect the children” is a real governing principle or just a campaign slogan printed on mailers.

And the public has a right to ask what Ohio’s Republican leadership has to say.

Miller has been a Trump-backed congressman since 2023. Moreno is now one of Ohio’s two U.S. senators. Their family connection was once part of the same Republican power ecosystem. Miller and Emily Moreno married in 2022 at Trump National Golf Club Bedminster, according to the Daily Beast, and later divorced after a bitter split.

Now that the relationship has spilled into court filings, police records, national media, and public accusations.

That is not merely a “messy divorce.”

That is public accountability territory.

There is also another layer here: the legal system itself.

A New York Post report republished by Zashin Law says Miller’s attorneys later acknowledged that his girlfriend was “not likely present” during a February custody exchange, despite Miller previously claiming in a notarized statement and hearing testimony that she was there. Moreno’s attorney then demanded sanctions and attorney fees, arguing that Miller was weaponizing the legal process in the custody dispute. Miller’s attorneys still argued that the video of the exchange showed no altercation.

That detail deserves scrutiny because courts rely on sworn statements. Protection orders rely on credibility. Custody decisions rely on facts. When any party in a case is accused of misrepresenting a witness, that is not a side note. That goes directly to the integrity of the process.

And again, Miller denies wrongdoing.

But denial does not end a story. It defines one side of it.

That is where journalism comes in.

The job is not to convict someone in public. The job is not to run somebody through a digital gallows. The job is to separate what is known, what is alleged, what is denied, what is documented, and what public officials still refuse to answer.

That is what Ohio’s political press should be doing right now.

Not with tabloid thirst. Not with partisan laziness. But with discipline.

Ask Bay Village police for updates.

Ask the Cuyahoga County court for accessible filings.

Ask Miller’s office whether he will answer questions beyond social media posts.

Ask Sen. Moreno’s office whether he denies, confirms, or refuses to address Miller’s accusation that he helped fund a campaign against him.

Ask Ohio Republican leaders whether allegations involving domestic violence and child safety deserve public comment when the accused official is one of their own.

Ask House Republican leadership whether they are monitoring the situation.

Ask the Ohio Democratic Party what accountability looks like beyond campaign messaging.

Ask everyone the same question: if this were your political enemy, would you be louder?

That is the question Columbus should not be allowed to dodge.

Because this is bigger than Max Miller.

It is about what happens when family power, political power, legal power, and media power all collide — and whether Ohioans are expected to look away because the people involved are too connected to touch.

Kin+ will not pretend to know what a court has not decided. But we also will not pretend an open police investigation involving a sitting congressman is just somebody else’s local story.

This is Ohio.

This is power.

And power should never get privacy when the public interest is this clear.

Jason Meade was convicted today. Just not of murder.

A Franklin County jury — nine women, three men — found the former sheriff’s deputy guilty of reckless homicide in the December 2020 killing of Casey Goodson Jr. Reckless homicide is a third-degree felony in the state of Ohio. It carries somewhere between nine and thirty-six months. It is the legal equivalent of a jury saying we know what you did; we just couldn’t quite bring ourselves to call it what it was.

On the murder charge, the jury hung. Again. As they did in 2024. Twice now, twelve people from this county have sat in a room with the evidence and failed to agree that what Jason Meade did to Casey Goodson Jr. was murder.

So let me lay the evidence out the way the prosecution did, because somebody should.

Casey Goodson Jr. was twenty-three years old. He was a licensed concealed carry holder. On December 4, 2020, he was walking into his grandmother’s house on the Northeast Side with a bag of Subway sandwiches in one hand and his keys in the other. He had earbuds in. He could not hear what he could not hear.

Jason Meade — a forty-seven-year-old white sheriff’s deputy and Baptist pastor — had finished a shift on a U.S. Marshals task force. Casey was not a target of that task force. Casey was not a suspect in anything. Meade has said, and only Meade has ever said, that Casey waved a gun at him from a passing vehicle. No other witness corroborated that. No camera recorded it. The Franklin County Sheriff’s Office did not equip its deputies with body cameras at the time, which is its own indictment for another column.

Meade followed Casey home. To his grandmother’s house.

What happened at that door is the part where the system keeps stumbling. Meade fired six rounds. Five of them entered Casey Goodson Jr. from the back. One entered from the side. When officers arrived, Casey’s licensed firearm was found beneath his body on his grandmother’s kitchen floor with the safety still engaged. The safety. Still on. The gun a 23-year-old man supposedly leveled at a deputy could not have fired if he’d tried.

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That is what a Franklin County jury this week was asked to decide was murder. And twice — twice — twelve of our neighbors could not get there.

Reckless homicide is what they got there on. Reckless. As if the issue were a moment of inattention. As if Jason Meade was changing the radio and accidentally let off six rounds into a young Black man’s back. The word “reckless” makes a verdict the system can stomach. It splits a kind of difference. It lets a jury go home.

Casey Goodson Jr. does not get to go home.

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Let’s be honest about what this verdict means and what it doesn’t.

It means Jason Meade is the second white law enforcement officer in the state of Ohio convicted of killing a Black man since George Floyd was murdered in Minneapolis in May 2020. The second. In nearly six years. In a state where the names keep coming. That is the bar. Set it on the floor and we still can’t seem to clear it on the first try.

It means the special prosecutor’s office did its job and a partial verdict is, in the words of Tim Merkle, something the state is “pleased with.” It means that on the courthouse steps, the police union president told the cameras he hopes there is no third trial on the murder charge. He hopes. That’s the temperature in 2026.

It means the Goodson family, who already won a $7 million civil settlement from Franklin County in 2024 — taxpayer money, our money, paid out because the county itself wouldn’t say in court what its insurance carrier said in writing — got a partial answer today. Not the answer. A partial answer. The kind that still requires a press conference to explain.

It means that during this trial, Columbus residents hung banners from highway overpasses that read Justice for Casey Goodson Jr. and Convict Murderer Meade. And the judge ordered law enforcement to take them down. In this city. In our city. The pleading of a community for one of its own was deemed prejudicial to a man on trial for shooting a community member six times.

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I want to say something to the Kinfolk reading this in Columbus tonight, because we are the ones who carry this.

Casey Goodson Jr. was somebody’s grandbaby. He was bringing food home. He had earbuds in because he was listening to music, which is what 23-year-olds do when they are walking into a house they grew up in. He was at a door he had every right to open. He did everything we tell our boys to do — licensed, lawful, headed home — and it did not save him.

A jury today said Jason Meade was reckless. We say Casey was murdered. Both can be true in a courtroom. Only one is true in our living rooms.

The state may decide whether to try this murder charge a third time. They have not announced. The defense is asking the public to be done with it. Tired. Tired. That’s the word the system reaches for when it is asking the people who buried Casey Goodson Jr. to be quiet now.

We are not done with it. We will not be done with it. Because being done with it is how a county like Franklin pays $7 million on the civil docket and 9 to 36 months on the criminal docket and calls the books closed on a young man who walked to his own door with sandwiches in his hand.

Welcome home, Columbus. We are still saying his name.

Casey Goodson Jr.

Rev. Jesse Jackson is dead at 84, and America is already doing what it always does when a Black giant exits the stage: rushing to file him into a clean little folder labeled hero or problem. He deserves neither box. He deserves the truth.

Jackson died in Chicago after years battling a rare neurological disorder and related complications—another reminder that the body keeps score, even when the spirit refuses to stop moving.

Now, here’s the part folks are going to fight about: legacy. Jesse Jackson’s legacy is complicated; it includes towering wins, sharp elbows, public controversies, and a lifelong habit of standing right in the center of history’s camera frame. Fine. Debate it.

But impact? That’s the part that outruns the arguments. Because “His legacy is complicated; his impact is measurable.”

Here’s what was really happening

Jesse Jackson didn’t just “lead marches.” “Jesse Jackson didn’t just march—he built leverage.” He understood something a lot of people still don’t want to learn: moral clarity is powerful, but power respects pressure.

He took civil rights out of the nostalgia museum and into the operating system of American life: jobs, contracts, elections, corporate boardrooms, media gatekeeping, and the permanent fight over who counts as “the public.” He built organizations and coalitions meant to extract results—Operation PUSH and, later, the Rainbow/PUSH Coalition, which formalized that coalition model and kept it going long after cameras moved on.

And he did it with language that stuck to your ribs. “I Am Somebody” wasn’t just a chant—it was a corrective to a country trained to treat Black dignity as negotiable

If you want this kind of plain-spoken, culturally fluent analysis—without the corporate filters—join #KinFam. Kin+ is Where the group chat meets the truth., and membership is how we keep the lights on and the receipts organized.

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Key moments

1) He turned coalition politics into an actual strategy

People throw around “coalition” like it’s a cute photo-op of everybody holding hands. Jesse treated it like warfare—with spreadsheets, targets, and consequences. “Rainbow politics wasn’t a vibe—it was a strategy.”

His whole approach was about expanding the table while refusing to beg for scraps. He pushed a multiracial, multi-issue frame—race, class, labor, gender, LGBTQ+ rights—then dared the Democratic Party to either grow up or get left behind.

2) He made Black presidential ambition thinkable on live TV

Jesse Jackson ran for the Democratic presidential nomination in 1984 and 1988, and no, he didn’t win. That’s not the point. The point is that he showed the country something it pretended it wasn’t ready to see: a Black candidate building a national coalition, stacking delegates, and forcing the party to say the quiet parts out loud.

Say it with your chest: “He made Black political ambition sound normal on national TV.”

And yes—if you’ve ever watched a candidate talk to Black voters like their campaign rent was due on Friday, “If you’ve ever watched a candidate court Black voters like their life depended on it, you’ve seen his fingerprints.”

3) He dragged corporate America into the conversation—whether it liked it or not

Jackson’s critics love to reduce him to microphones and theatrics. But the real work was often boring: boycotts, negotiations, demands, follow-ups, and the constant insistence that “diversity” isn’t a commercial—it’s employment, vendors, contracts, and decision-making.

This is where impact beats legacy every time. Movements can win hearts. Jesse tried to win budgets.

4) He practiced “freelance diplomacy” when the government couldn’t (or wouldn’t)

One of the wildest parts of Jesse Jackson’s career is how often he walked into geopolitical messes as a private citizen and walked out with people released. Reuters and other accounts credit him with helping secure the release of Americans held abroad and serving as an envoy to Africa during the Clinton era.

And whether you love that or hate it, it speaks to the same core principle: “He didn’t wait for permission from power; he negotiated with it.”

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So what?

• Black politics today is built on infrastructure he normalized. National campaigns courting Black voters, coalition math, movement language in policy debates—this didn’t appear out of thin air.

• He proved protest isn’t the only lever—organized bargaining is. A march is a moment. An institution is a machine. Jesse built machines.

• He modeled the cost of being “inside-outside.” When you pressure presidents and CEOs, you get results—and enemies. That tension shaped his whole public life.

• He helped globalize Black freedom as a human rights issue. Tributes today highlight his anti-apartheid advocacy and international solidarity, which mattered because U.S. racial hierarchy has always been part of a global system.

And here’s the bluntest truth: “The debates about Jesse will fade; the doors he kicked open won’t.”

What could break this? (failure modes)

1. We turn him into a Hallmark quote instead of a playbook. “Keep hope alive wasn’t a slogan—it was a workload.” If we only keep the slogan, we lose the method.

2. Coalition politics collapses into clout politics. Jesse’s model required discipline, negotiation, and uncomfortable alliances—not just trending topics.

3. Institutions absorb the aesthetics of justice while resisting the economics of justice. He fought for contracts and jobs because symbolism alone doesn’t pay rent. That fight is still unfinished.

What to watch next (signals)

1. What happens to the Rainbow/PUSH Coalition now—leadership, priorities, and whether it stays a pressure organization or becomes a legacy brand.

2. How 2026–2028 Democrats talk about Black voters—substance vs. performance, policy vs. pandering.

3. Whether “economic justice” returns as a central frame (jobs, wages, contracts, education) instead of an afterthought.

4. How younger organizers talk about Jesse—do they inherit the coalition method or reject it as “old politics”?

5. The global tributes—especially from leaders and movements who saw him as part of a broader anti-racist, anti-apartheid international story.

Jesse Jackson will be argued about forever. That’s what happens when you spend your life applying pressure in public.

But the scoreboard matters more than the commentary. He expanded what Black America could demand, and he forced America to respond—sometimes with progress, sometimes with backlash, often with both.

His legacy is messy. His impact? It’s everywhere.

If you’re tired of sanitized obituaries and want coverage that tells the truth and explains the stakes, join #KinFam. Supporting Kin+ means backing Black-owned journalism that treats power like a system—not a celebrity.

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SOURCING / TRANSPARENCY FOOTER (sources used)

• Associated Press • The Rev. Jesse Jackson… has died at 84 • Feb 17, 2026

• Reuters • Jesse Jackson… dies at 84 • Feb 17, 2026

• The Guardian • Jesse Jackson… dies aged 84 • Feb 17, 2026

• The Washington Post • Jesse Jackson… dies at 84 • Feb 17, 2026

• Rainbow PUSH Coalition • Brief History / Organization and Mission • (site pages)

• Encyclopaedia Britannica • Operation PUSH • (page updated)

• WTTW • Rev. Jesse Jackson… dies at 84 • Feb 17, 2026

Columbus is doing that thing cities do when the vibes get toxic: everybody starts fumbling for the nearest bottle of hand sanitizer and pretending nobody touched the doorknob.

The doorknob, in this case, is Les Wexner—the billionaire retail kingmaker whose name is on half the city and whose proximity to Jeffrey Epstein has never been a secret, but is suddenly being treated like breaking news now that new batches of Epstein-related records are out and Wexner is headed toward a congressional deposition.

So now a bunch of elected officials are announcing they’re donating Wexner campaign contributions to local nonprofits. Rep. Joyce Beatty says she’s donating Wexner money to organizations supporting survivors of sex trafficking and abuse. Columbus City Council President Shannon Hardin says he donated the “total sum” to Columbus Promise. Franklin County Commissioner John O’Grady donated to Ours Brothers Keepers.

And then there’s Mayor Andrew Ginther, who—according to The Columbus Dispatch—isn’t giving his Wexner donations away. The local outlet The Rooster also reports Ginther told reporters nobody asked him to return the money, and he brushed off concerns about Wexner’s Epstein ties.

Which brings us to the real question: Is donating the money away accountability… or is it just reputation management with a receipt?

We track the influence chain—who pays, who benefits, who dodges, and how “accountability” gets staged for cameras. Join the #KinFam for more like this.

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Here’s what was really happening: “Return the money” is the cheapest form of morality

Donating Wexner money to charity sounds like a righteous cleanse. It photographs well. It reads well in a press release. It lets you say “I stand with survivors” without doing anything that might upset the donor ecosystem that keeps local politics humming.

But functionally? It doesn’t rewind time. It doesn’t erase the access the donation bought. It doesn’t undo the advantage that money gave when it was sitting in the account—paying for mailers, staff time, event space, field operations, or just plain political security.

It’s like saying, “I cashed the check, but don’t worry—I gave the same amount to charity later.” That’s not repentance. That’s laundering the optics.

And the timing isn’t subtle. Wexner is back in headlines because (1) his name appeared among newly unredacted Epstein-related material and was discussed publicly by members of Congress, and (2) the House Oversight Committee is moving forward with a deposition. The pressure got louder, so the politicians got holier.

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Key moments in the Wexner “donate it away” scramble

1) The Epstein files get louder—and Wexner gets pulled back into the frame

Wexner hasn’t been charged with a crime, and his representatives have denied wrongdoing and said he was not a target in 2019.

At the same time, reporting around the latest document releases has put his name back into public view—including references to an FBI document that listed him as a “co-conspirator,” while also noting limited evidence. That’s not a conviction. But it’s also not nothing—especially in a country that routinely treats suspicion like smoke and “smoke” like fire when the person isn’t rich.

2) Beatty moves first—because her math is ugly

Beatty says she’s donating Wexner money to survivor-support organizations. WOSU reports she has received $61,100 from Les and Abigail Wexner since 2013. That’s enough money to become a story all by itself, especially when your district includes Columbus and your political brand has to survive the phrase “Epstein associate” in the same paragraph as “campaign contributions.”

3) Hardin and O’Grady discover charity—right on schedule

Per The Rooster, O’Grady donated to Ours Brothers Keepers; Hardin donated to Columbus Promise. Whether you love those choices or side-eye them, the logic is the same: announce a donation, exit the blast radius.

And yes, it conveniently overlaps with the unspoken local reality: Columbus political succession is always loading in the background. (Hardin, Klein, and Ginther are basically in a long-running “who’s next” chess match.)

4) Ginther doesn’t budge—and that’s why he’s the headline

If you’re the mayor and everybody around you is sprinting toward the moral high ground, standing still reads like defiance.

Even if Ginther’s internal logic is “the donations were legal,” politics is not a courtroom. Politics is vibes plus power. And right now, the vibe is: why are you the last person still holding the bag?

So what? What donating the money away actually changes

It changes three things—none of them are the big one.

1. It reduces future dependency.
   If Wexner money is still sitting in a campaign account, donating an equivalent amount to charity can at least stop it from funding future political activity.

2. It’s a signal—mostly to donors and endorsers.
   This is a way of saying: “I’m safe. I won’t let this become a liability for the coalition.”

3. It’s narrative control.
   It flips the story from “why did you take it?” to “look what I did with it.” That’s not accountability. That’s PR.

What it doesn’t do: it doesn’t address the deeper issue—a local power structure that treated Wexner money as normal, acceptable, and not worth explaining until national scrutiny forced everybody’s hand.

Is this just because it’s an election year?

Mostly, yes.

Not because every politician is cartoon-villain evil, but because election years are when:

• opponents go digging,

• reporters have incentives to connect dots,

• donors get skittish,

• and “values” suddenly become a campaign asset again.

Also: the congressional deposition date puts a clock on the story. Every week closer to it increases the chance new details drop, and nobody wants to be caught flat-footed with a quote like “no comment” while the internet does what the internet does.

Will Wexner’s name start coming off buildings?

That process has already started—at least politically and culturally—even if the signs haven’t changed yet.

Survivors of OSU’s Richard Strauss abuse have been publicly pressuring Ohio State leadership around Wexner’s institutional influence, including calls to remove his name from facilities. Ohio State has denied at least one formal request to remove Wexner’s name from the Woody Hayes Athletic Center complex. And OSU’s president has publicly acknowledged paying attention to the latest Epstein-file reporting while also saying there’s “no reason not to believe” Wexner’s denials.

Translation: the university is bracing, not pivoting.

Name removals happen when two things converge:

1. sustained public pressure (not just a one-week flare-up), and

2. institutional stakeholders deciding the reputational cost exceeds the financial/history cost.

The pressure side is rising. The institutional side? Still in “wait it out” mode.

What could break this? (Failure modes)

1. The deposition is a dud.
   If the congressional deposition yields no new, headline-worthy information, the urgency fades, and everybody’s “donation cleanse” becomes the closing chapter.

2. The story gets localized into petty politics.
   If this turns into “Hardin vs. Ginther” personality content, the structural question—who runs Columbus, and how—gets buried.

3. Nonprofits become props.
   If donations look like opportunistic checks without transparency, the nonprofits get used as moral shields and the public gets even more cynical.

What to watch next (signals)

1. Does Ginther eventually donate—or double down?
   A late donation would scream “I resisted until it hurt.”

2. Do other city/county officials disclose totals and timelines?
   “Donated to charity” is not a number. Watch for specifics.

3. Do institutions move on naming decisions—or stall again?
   OSU’s current posture is “no.” Watch if that changes as pressure escalates.

4. Does the deposition produce new documentation?
   Even one new detail can re-ignite the whole cycle.

5. Do journalists keep pulling the thread locally?
   Because Columbus has lived with Wexner’s influence for decades. The real story is what people accepted before the national spotlight arrived.

The honest bottom line: donating the money away is not accountability. It’s harm reduction—for the politician. Real accountability would be (a) rejecting the money going forward, (b) disclosing totals cleanly, (c) explaining the relationship and access patterns, and (d) supporting structural reforms that make it harder for a single billionaire to become an unofficial branch of local government.

Until then, “I gave it to charity” is just the political version of “my bad.” Cute. Not sufficient.

We don’t just report the headline—we map the power, the incentives, and the cover stories that keep it all running.

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SOURCING / TRANSPARENCY FOOTER (sources used)

• WOSU Public Media — “U.S. Rep. Joyce Beatty will donate campaign money from Leslie Wexner to charity” — Feb. 13, 2026

• ABC6 / WSYX — “Ohio politicians scramble to return campaign donations tied to Wexner” — Feb. 16, 2026

• Reuters — “US congressional panel to subpoena billionaire Leslie Wexner over Epstein ties” — Jan. 8, 2026

• NOTUS — “Ohio Lawmakers Stay Mum on Donations From Epstein Associate Les Wexner” — Feb. 10, 2026

• Ohio Revised Code — Section 3517.08 (charitable donation expenditures) — effective Sept. 30, 2025

• Federal Election Commission — “Charitable donations” guidance

• The Rooster (D.J. Byrnes) — “Shannon Hardin & Joyce Beatty return Leslie Wexner’s dirty money” — Feb. 13, 2026

• The Rooster (D.J. Byrnes) — “Ohio State University still honors notorious Jeffrey Epstein associate Les Wexner” — Dec. 18, 2025

By the time Norah O’Donnell finished setting the scene in Cambridge, Maryland—historic town, Underground Railroad lore, civil rights echoes—you could already tell what CBS wanted this hour to be: a glossy audition tape for Gov. Wes Moore as “the future of the Democratic Party.”

And honestly? Moore played the role like he understood the assignment.

But here’s the twist: the most important thing Moore did wasn’t flirt with 2028. It was drag his own party for being allergic to urgency—while staring straight at a country that’s watching Trump-style politics sprint across the field like it stole the whistle.

Because that’s where we are. This isn’t the “ideas marketplace.” It’s speed chess with consequences.

“No and slow” is a death sentence

Moore’s clearest argument—under all the talk about Trump, Epstein, immigration, rising prices, and the general vibes of national dysfunction—was basically this:

Democrats can’t keep responding to real pain with studies, task forces, commissions, and “we’re going to explore options.”

People aren’t asking for a five-year plan. They’re asking if you see them right now.

And yes, that’s partly an indictment of the party. Not because Democrats don’t have policies. They do. The problem is they keep communicating like the policy itself is the victory. Like the press conference is the finish line. Like the spreadsheet is dinner.

Meanwhile, the other side is moving like they don’t even believe in guardrails.

That’s why Moore’s framing hit: the question isn’t whether Democrats are right. The question is whether they’re credible as doers. Whether they can execute with enough speed to match the moment without turning into the moment.

That’s the needle.Trump insulted him—Moore refused to audition for the circus

CBS made sure to include Trump’s usual brand of public disrespect toward Moore—calling him “foul-mouthed,” accusing him of lying about military medals, blaming him for Baltimore crime, and the Francis Scott Key Bridge rebuild.

And Moore didn’t do what a lot of Democrats do in these moments: the trembling, over-explaining, “let me clarify the record” thing.

He basically said: I’m not doing mental gymnastics inside Trump’s psyche. I have a state to run.

That matters.

Because one of the ways Trump dominates the room—even when he’s not in it—is by forcing his opponents to speak in his language. To respond on his terrain. To spend precious minutes addressing disrespect instead of delivering power.

Moore’s move was: I’m not playing.

He repositioned it as a leadership argument: leadership means building a table, integrity, making people feel like they belong here. And Trump’s behavior, he suggested, isn’t just beneath the office—it’s beneath the country.

That’s the best version of “don’t wrestle the pig.” You can’t win the mud contest. You can only refuse it.

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The racism question—and Moore’s most telling answer

Norah asked the question America always asks Black leaders like it’s a pop quiz: “Do you believe Trump is racist?”

Moore didn’t take the bait in the simplistic way. He didn’t do the cable-news “Yes, obviously” mic drop. He said (paraphrasing): ask Trump. But I can tell you how his actions land on Black people and people of color.

Then he ticked through the impact: assaults on HBCU scholarship programs, attacks on Black female employment, book bans, history minimization, and the grotesque “apes” imagery aimed at the Obamas.

That answer matters not because it’s clever—it’s because it’s strategic. Moore refused to let the conversation become a morality play about one man’s heart. He forced it back to outcomes.

Black people have been trapped in this cycle forever: prove the racism, explain the racism, document the racism, debate the racism—while living inside the consequences of the racism.

Moore’s answer was basically: you don’t need an admission when the evidence has a body count.

Immigration: the rare Democrat who said “Biden didn’t have it right” without self-sabotage

On immigration, Moore did something Democrats struggle to do: admit failure without handing over the whole argument.

He said what a lot of people already know: the immigration system is broken and Congress has punted for decades. He acknowledged the Biden years weren’t some clean, solved era—and then pivoted to what Democrats don’t do enough of: talking about competence and reform in the same sentence as human dignity.

He also drew a bright line around ICE enforcement practices and accountability—arguing that if untrained, unqualified, unaccountable agents are being deployed into communities, the state has a responsibility to keep people safe.

This is where “yes and now” either becomes real—or collapses. Because immigration is the kind of issue where “faster” can mean “crueler” if you aren’t careful. Moore’s pitch is that you can be decisive without becoming inhumane. Voters want order. They also want the country to still be the country.

That’s not easy. But it’s necessary.

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Epstein: “Accountability” is the last bipartisan language left

If there was one moment where you could feel the entire room—left, right, tired, cynical—lock into the same frequency, it was Epstein.

Moore called the details sickening and grotesque and demanded accountability for anyone found guilty—regardless of background or political affiliation. He pointed to the core trust problem: people feel like “we’ve known” for a long time and yet almost nobody has faced consequences.

This is bigger than Epstein. This is the institutional crisis in one sentence:

When people believe elites can harm children and still walk free, they stop believing anything else the system says.

They stop distinguishing between error and cover-up.
They stop trusting investigations.
They stop trusting courts.
They stop trusting journalists.
They stop trusting each other.

That’s how societies break.

Moore tapped into something real: America is spiritually exhausted from watching “accountability” be a slogan instead of a verb.

The most important exchange was with a Black Republican woman

And this is where Moore either earned his reputation—or proved he’s just another talented messenger.

A Black woman in the audience—registered Republican, digital media business owner, former Democrat—basically said what you hear more and more:

“I left because I got tired of racial framing on every issue that didn’t solve real problems like crime, failing schools, high taxes, and cost of living. How do you earn voters like me back who want results, not racial narratives?”

Here’s what Moore didn’t do:
He didn’t scold her.
He didn’t “well actually” her.
He didn’t treat her like a betrayal story.

He agreed with the premise that outcomes matter, and then reframed the assignment for Democrats: it’s not just to energize the base—it’s to enlarge it. Speak to everybody. Show up in places you lost. Deliver results, and people will find their political home where results live.

That answer is the only path forward.

Because the truth is: people don’t abandon Democrats because they suddenly love conservative ideology. A lot of times, they abandon Democrats because they don’t feel like Democrats are building a life that works.

Results are persuasive.
Lectures are not.

So what was this, really?

This was Wes Moore presenting himself as a different kind of Democrat: an operator with narrative skill. A leader who wants to move with urgency without losing legitimacy. Someone trying to be tough without being theatrical.

And if Democrats are serious about surviving the next few years, they need more than charismatic prosecutors of Trump.
They need governors who can show receipts.
They need leaders who can talk like adults and govern like the building is on fire.

Moore’s “yes and now” line is either a real governing philosophy—or it’s another slogan destined to die in a focus group.

But for one hour in Cambridge, he made the case that Democrats don’t have a messaging problem.

They have a velocity problem.

And in the era we’re in, slow isn’t thoughtful.

Slow is fatal.

This is episode one of something I’m bringing back — documenting the journey in real time, unfiltered, unpolished, and honest.

Not the highlight reel.
Not the “founder aesthetic.”
The real behind-the-scenes of building Kin Worldwide while life is still lifing.

What This Episode Is Really About

This first entry is the start of a pivot — not just for Kin, but for me.

I’ve been in a transition season, and one of the biggest truths I’m learning is simple:

Busy ain’t free.

Just because your schedule looks full and your life looks “active” doesn’t mean your mind is okay.
And it definitely doesn’t mean you’re operating like a CEO.

This is me stepping into a new level of clarity, discipline, and protection — because legacy requires structure.

Why I’m Documenting This (No Edits, No Filters)

I used to document my journey years ago. I stopped.
But I’m bringing it back because:

• People see motion and assume progress

• People see busyness and assume stability

• People see “work” and assume “winning”

And the truth is… you can look productive and still be drowning.

Kin Daily is my way of showing the real build.
The pivot. The pressure. The mindset. The moves. The mistakes. The lessons.

The Pivot: What Kin Is Becoming

A lot of people remember when Kin started out, aimed toward being a social media platform. I put some serious money into R&D trying to make that real — and I learned a lot from it.

But this season is different.

This season is Kin becoming what it was always supposed to be:
a real company, a real brand, a real legacy play — built by a CEO who’s doing this the right way.

The CEO Boundary Shift (My Word Is My Bond)

One of the main themes you’ll keep hearing from me in this series is boundaries.

Not soft boundaries.
Not “I’m working on it” boundaries.

I mean:

• My yes is YES

• My no is NO

• My word is my bond

Because if I’m building a billion-dollar brand, I can’t build it while being mentally unprotected or emotionally available to anything and everything.

What You Can Expect From Kin Daily

These entries aren’t scheduled like a TV show.

They’re going to be real snapshots in time:

• Some days you might get one

• Some days, you might get multiple

• But they will always live on Kin+ as the home base

And over time, you’re going to watch:

• The brand shift

• The marketing campaign get built

• The company get sharpened

• The CEO get forged

Episode 001 Takeaway

Busy Ain’t Free isn’t just a slogan.

It’s a warning.
It’s a mirror.
It’s a line in the sand.

Because looking successful while living chaotic isn’t freedom — it’s a trap with receipts.

Ask Yourself This (And Be Honest)

Where are you busy… but not free?

Drop it in the comments.
This series is going to be for the builders who want their life back.

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Most people treat selling like a random thunderstorm:

Disappear for weeks.
Show up outta nowhere.
“HEY Y’ALL, BUY MY THING.”

Then they swear, “people don’t support.”

Nah. You just never warmed them up.

Here’s a simple 5-post warm-up sequence you can use on ANY platform before you drop an offer—Black Friday, end-of-year, whatever.

Post 1 – The Mirror Post

Call out the real struggle of your people.

• “Black creators are tired of going viral and still being broke.”
  No pitch. Just say the quiet part out loud.

Post 2 – The Story Post

Share a quick story of when you were there, too.

• “I used to post every day and still couldn’t explain what I did. Here’s what changed…”

Post 3 – The Value Hit

Give 1 simple, actionable tip they can use TODAY.

• A DM script. A checklist. A caption formula. Make it easy.

Post 4 – The Vision Post

Paint the picture of what they actually want.

• “Imagine knowing exactly what to post for 30 days and exactly how it leads to money.”

Post 5 – The Invitation

Now—and only now—invite them.

• “I’m running something for folks who are done guessing. Comment ‘LOCKED IN’ and I’ll send you the details.”

That’s it. No begging. No desperation. Just rhythm.

On a gray Friday in Columbus, a jury walked back into Courtroom 5B and said, in the polite language of the law, what American juries have told Black families for generations: when a police officer says he was afraid, that fear weighs more than our lives.

The clerk read it out: not guilty on all counts. No murder. No manslaughter. No felonious assault.

Former Blendon Township officer Connor Grubb stood still. The defense table loosened its shoulders. On the other side of the room, the family of Ta’Kiya Young—a 21-year-old Black mother, seven months pregnant with a baby girl she’d already nicknamed “tiny lady”—absorbed the quiet violence of the words.

In the hallway, Young’s grandmother broke down on camera, shouting through tears that he got to walk away while her granddaughter and great-granddaughter were gone forever. It was not just grief; it was recognition. Anyone who has been Black and paying attention in this country knew exactly what had just happened, even if they didn’t know her name until that day.

Once again, the oldest unresolved question in American life pressed itself to the front:

What the verdict actually said

On August 24, 2023, officers confronted Young in a Kroger parking lot on Columbus’s northeast side after store staff accused her of shoplifting bottles of liquor. Body-camera footage shows two officers at her car: one at the driver’s door, one in front of the hood with his gun already drawn. Young cracks the window, denies stealing, asks, “Are you going to shoot me?” She turns on her turn signal. The car starts to roll forward at a crawl. The officer in front—Grubb—plants one hand on the hood, raises the other, and fires a single shot through the windshield into her chest. Her Lexus rolls away and drifts to a stop as her body collapses. She and her unborn daughter are later pronounced dead at the hospital.

Prosecutors charged Grubb with murder, involuntary manslaughter, and felonious assault. A judge dismissed four counts related to the fetus, ruling there wasn’t enough evidence he knew she was pregnant, but allowed the rest to proceed.

At trial, the core question wasn’t whether a suspected low-level theft should ever end in death. It wasn’t whether a trained officer should choose to stand in front of a car and escalate the encounter with a gun already drawn. Legally, the question shrank down to this:

Did Grubb reasonably fear for his life when he pulled the trigger?

The defense argued that when Young’s car moved, Grubb believed he was about to be run over, making deadly force justified. The prosecution countered that he created the danger by stepping in front of the vehicle and that a slowly moving car in a parking lot did not pose a lethal threat.

Under the Supreme Court’s Graham v. Connor standard, an officer’s use of force must be judged from the perspective of a “reasonable officer on the scene,” not a civilian watching the replay on YouTube. That doctrine, now decades old, bends the law around police perceptions of danger—perceptions soaked in a culture that has long treated Black bodies as inherently threatening. Legal scholars have argued for years that this is why prosecutions are so rare.

The numbers are stark. Since 2005, roughly 20,000 people have been killed by police in the United States. In that same period, about 200 officers total have been arrested for on-duty murder or manslaughter—around 1 percent of fatal police shootings. Of those, only a fraction have been convicted of any crime, and just a handful of those convictions have been for murder.

Put differently: out of more than 20,000 people killed by police in two decades, fewer than four out of every 1,000 deaths have led to any criminal conviction for the officer involved—and almost none have been called what they look like from the outside: murder.

That’s not a bug in the system. That is the system.

So when the jury told the world that Young’s killing did not meet the threshold for criminal accountability, they weren’t handing down an anomaly. They were joining a chorus.

Columbus is not an exception. It’s a map.

Columbus has quietly become one of the country’s clearest case studies in how this pattern plays out.

In 2020, a Franklin County sheriff’s deputy killed Casey Goodson Jr., shooting him in the back as he entered his home with a bag of Subway sandwiches. Weeks later, Columbus officer Adam Coy shot and killed Andre Hill, an unarmed Black man, in a neighbor’s garage after mistaking his cellphone for a gun. Coy was eventually convicted of murder—making him the first on-duty officer in Columbus, and in all of Ohio, to be convicted of murder for killing someone while on duty.

Around those cases are others:

• Ma’Khia Bryant, 16, shot within seconds of officers arriving at a chaotic fight outside her foster home.

• Donovan Lewis, killed in his bed when an officer serving a warrant fired almost immediately after opening the door, later claiming he thought a vape pen was a gun.

Each incident had its own facts. Each sparked its own outrage. Each followed a familiar chain: encounter → escalation → lethal force → legal ambiguity → institutional defensiveness.

Coy’s conviction is treated as evidence that the system can work when it wants to. Young’s case is a reminder of how rarely it wants to.

After the verdict, attorney Sean Walton, who represents Young’s family, called it “an American tragedy” and emphasized that he did not blame the jury as much as the legal standard they were given. If the law is designed to privilege police fear over Black life, then the outcome, he suggested, is baked in.

The local police union, meanwhile, framed the acquittal as vindication—not just of Grubb, but of police power itself. The Fraternal Order of Police had called the indictment “politically motivated” from the start; after the verdict, it praised the jury and thanked them for seeing the case “for what it was.”

Read the two reactions side by side and you see the split-screen Black America has been living in for generations:

• For the family, this was confirmation that their granddaughter’s life could be taken with impunity.

• For the union, this was confirmation that the system still knows whose fear counts most.

They keep telling us who we are.

What the law hears vs. what we hear

Inside the courtroom, “reasonableness” is supposed to be neutral. Jurors are instructed to imagine themselves as officers, feel the adrenaline, and picture the split-second decision.

Outside the courtroom, Black communities are still asking a different set of questions:

• Why is an officer’s fear unquestioned while a Black person’s fear of police is treated as irrational?

• Why is the jury told to see the world through the officer’s eyes but never through the eyes of the person who ends up dead?

• How many times can you watch this movie before you admit it has a script?

The legal system cares deeply whether an officer’s fear meets the threshold of “reasonable.” It rarely asks whether the underlying fear itself is the problem—fear trained by a culture that has coded Blackness as a threat for centuries.

That’s the piece the courtroom can’t hold. It’s also the piece our culture has been screaming about in the only court that consistently hears us: the arts.

The unofficial Black law library

Long before body-camera footage forced the country to look at what Black communities already knew, our artists had been documenting the pattern—song by song, verse by verse.

In 1996, Michael Jackson released “They Don’t Care About Us,” a raw, percussive indictment of police brutality and state violence. One video was filmed in a U.S. prison, surrounded by incarcerated men; another in Brazilian favelas. At the time, critics called it excessive, even inflammatory. In retrospect, it reads like a news bulletin that arrived twenty years early.

Two decades later, Common and John Legend wrote “Glory” for Ava DuVernay’s film Selma. The song won an Oscar, but more importantly, it connected the march across the Edmund Pettus Bridge to today’s protests in Ferguson, Baltimore, Minneapolis, and Columbus. In their acceptance speech, Legend reminded the audience that more Black men were under correctional control in 2015 than were enslaved in 1850.

Then there’s Kendrick Lamar—a one-man cross-examination in a hoodie.

His catalog lives at the intersection of confession, prophecy, and prosecution. Behind the gossip and memes around a track like “Not Like Us” is a deeper project: drawing a line between those who truly belong to a community and those who feed off it. When he urges people to unplug from TV broadcasts and social feeds that loop Black suffering on an endless reel, he’s not being anti-media. He’s being anti-propaganda. He’s telling us: If you don’t own the frame, your pain is just programming.

Taken together, these songs—and dozens more like them—form an unofficial Black law library.

• They document patterns the court treats as irrelevant “prior incidents.”

• They hold a memory longer than any news cycle.

• They put the state on the stand and force it to answer questions it never hears under oath.

So when another verdict comes back not guilty, when another lawyer tells us an officer’s fear was understandable, we’re not starting from scratch. We’re hearing the ruling with Michael’s fury, Common and Legend’s lament, and Kendrick’s boundaries playing in the background.

The courts keep telling us who we are. The music keeps answering back: We already know. We’ve been knowing.

Beyond preaching to the choir

Critics sometimes say that essays like this “preach to the choir”—that the people who read them already believe the system is rigged, and the people who don’t will never make it past the headline.

There’s some truth there. Black readers don’t need more “awareness.” They need less premature deaths.

But here’s the thing about choirs: they’re not just there to be preached at. They’re there to sing.

Trials like Grubb’s are designed, almost by definition, to scrub out context. Jurors are told to look only at the seconds before the shot. Prior incidents, departmental patterns, the city’s history with police violence—most of that stays outside the door, treated as prejudicial.

Art, journalism, and community memory do the opposite. They lay cases side by side.

They say:

Here is Tamir Rice. Here is Philando Castile. Here is Sandra Bland. Here is George Floyd. Here is Breonna Taylor. Here is Casey Goodson Jr. Here is Andre Hill. Here is Ta’Kiya Young.

Now tell me again, this is about one bad decision in one parking lot.

The point isn’t just to persuade the unconvinced. It’s to give the already-convinced a shared story, language, and strategy—to turn solitary grief into collective clarity.

Which brings us to the real question: What now?

From protest to power: four fronts of the fight

If all we do after this verdict is march, post, and move on, we will be back here in a few months with a new name and the same arguments.

The work ahead lives on at least four fronts.

1. Wage asymmetric legal warfare

If the system understands anything, it’s cost.

Right now, the financial risk of killing us is low. Cities pay settlements; insurance helps cover it; budgets keep rolling. As long as fatal force is cheaper than reform, nothing fundamental changes.

“Asymmetric legal warfare” means:

• Relentless civil litigation—not just against individual officers, but against departments and municipalities that tolerate patterns of abuse.

• Targeted impact suits that force disclosure of training materials, internal communications, and disciplinary records—turning discovery into public education.

• Coordinated legal strategies so that wins in one jurisdiction become templates for others, instead of isolated victories.

In Columbus, for example, Andre Hill’s family secured a multi-million-dollar settlement and helped push through “Andre’s Law,” which requires officers to render aid and activate body-cams. That’s not justice. But it’s a small example of making negligence expensive enough that departments have to change behavior, not just messaging.

This isn’t about believing the system will suddenly grow a conscience. It’s about making it too costly—for city budgets, for police unions, for political careers—to keep treating Black death as a line item.

2. Treat police violence as a public-health crisis

Every killing like Young’s sends shock waves through a community. Researchers have found that highly publicized police killings of unarmed Black people are associated with spikes in mental-health issues among Black Americans, including anxiety and depression.

That means trauma is not just personal; it’s population-level.

If we’re serious about survival, we have to build infrastructures of care:

• Free or low-cost counseling specifically for families and communities impacted by police violence.

• Grief circles and healing spaces led by therapists, clergy, and community elders after major cases.

• Media practices that cover these stories without replaying Black death on loop for ratings.

Otherwise, “turn the TV off” becomes the only sane option—and our coping mechanism becomes a kind of forced disengagement from public life.

3. Build our own archives

The official record of police violence in this country is scattered and incomplete. Departments under-report. Federal databases are voluntary and patchy. Most of what we know comes from journalists, academics, and a handful of determined nonprofits.

We need Black-led archives that don’t just store information, but protect memory and agency.

That looks like:

• Searchable, community-controlled databases where every use of deadly force is logged, tracked, and followed—not just the cases that go viral.

• Timelines that show what happens after the headline: charges, pleas, trials, settlements, policy changes—or the silence.

• Narrative profiles that keep our people human: not just mugshots, but voice notes, photos, dreams, favorite colors, the text messages they sent the night before.

In a better world, Ta’Kiya Young isn’t just a case number in a PDF. She’s a full profile: her dreams of becoming a social worker, her love of pink, her applications for housing, her vision of stability for her sons. Data that her family has a say over. A story no outside algorithm can quietly bury when the trending topic changes.

4. Own the platforms that tell the story

This is where protest meets power.

Every time a Black person is killed by police, our grief becomes content. Cable news loops the footage. Social media harvests the engagement. Platforms whose algorithms routinely bury Black creators’ work have no problem amplifying Black trauma.

If we don’t own the platforms, we are the product.

So the long-term answer to “Do Black lives really matter?” cannot just be: We hope the courts start treating us better. It has to be: We are building the digital, cultural, and economic infrastructure where our lives are non-negotiable from the start.

That’s the work I’m trying to do with Kin Worldwide—a Black-owned media and tech ecosystem being built out of Columbus and beyond. The goal is simple and radical:

• Platforms where the energy of the barbershop, the block, and the boardroom converge.

• Spaces where Black creators, journalists, lawyers, and organizers decide which stories lead—not distant editors chasing ratings.

• Tools that help families control how their loved ones’ images and names are used.

• A home for the “unofficial Black law library”—the music, the reporting, the oral histories—that keeps our memory sharper than any official report.

Kin isn’t the only effort like this. But it’s my stake in the ground, my answer to a country that keeps putting us on trial even when we’re the ones in the casket.

The point is not to build a branded bunker. The point is to build infrastructure—places where our dead are not reduced to exhibits and our living are not reduced to eyeballs.

The verdict isn’t the last word—unless we let it be

Ta’Kiya Young will never get to enroll in a social-work program. She will never sign a lease on the apartment she hoped would give her boys their own rooms. Her daughter will never wear the pink outfits waiting for her.

The court has spoken on what happened in that Kroger parking lot. The police union has claimed vindication. The news has mostly moved on to the next crisis.

But the story isn’t over unless we agree to end it here.

Black music will go on documenting the pattern. Black communities will go on carrying the grief. Black parents will go on having “the talk” that white parents don’t need.

The question is what we build in response.

Do Black lives really matter in America?

• If you look only at the verdicts, the answer is: not enough to consistently outweigh a uniform’s fear.

• If you look at what we are starting to build—legal strategies that raise the cost of killing us, archives that won’t forget us, platforms that we own—the answer can become something else.

The courts will keep saying “not guilty.”
We have to build the institutions that answer back.

That’s the work in front of us now: to turn the wail in that courthouse hallway into policy, into platforms, into power.

The state has given its verdict.

Our verdict will be written in what we build next.

For the last decade, we’ve been feeding everybody else’s machine.

We gave them our jokes, our dances, our think pieces, our pain, our genius. They turned it into valuation, ad revenue, stock prices, and “year in review” decks to show rich folks how profitable our culture is.

And what did most of us get?

A couple of viral moments, an unsteady bag, and a whole lotta “The algorithm ain’t showing my stuff.”

Here’s the truth nobody wants to say out loud:

If we don’t own the platform, we are the product.
If we don’t own the system, we are the fuel.

Heading into Black Friday, every platform is about to hit you with “boost this,” “promote that,” and “run ads now.” They want your last bit of attention, energy, and money before the year ends.

I’m not here to tell you not to post.

I’m here to tell you: post like you’re building your own house, not renting someone else’s apartment.

That looks like:

• Pointing people back to your email list, not just your timeline.

• Building your own community, not just followers.

• Using platform traffic to feed your owned ecosystem, not their quarterly earnings.

That’s literally why Kin exists: a digital home where Black creators and Black-owned brands connect, build, and OWN IT ALL.

This season, we stop begging algorithms and start building infrastructure.

Welcome home.

If you’re tired of powering everybody else’s platform for free, come inside myKin, our free community for Black creators and entrepreneurs. That’s where we’re actually building the systems behind these newsletters.

P.S. If this hit you, forward it to one creator or one Black-owned business that needs to read it today.

“Support Black-owned.”
“Share this post.”
“Tell a friend to tell a friend.”

I love the intention.
But let’s be real…

A lot of Black-owned and culture-forward brands are heading into Black Friday with:

• One last-minute flyer

• A random reel or two

• No real promo plan

…and then we get mad at the algorithm when the numbers don’t move.

This year, I want to show you a different way.

Instead of just talking about “content,” I want you to see the kind of promo we can put in your hands.

Example 1: Short Promo for a Service-Based Brand

This first video is built for a service business – clean, simple, straight to the point.

Notice a few things:

• It hooks you in the first couple of seconds

• It clearly says who it’s for and what problem it solves

• It’s vertical and ready for Reels, TikTok, Shorts, FB

• It feels like something you’d actually stop and watch while scrolling

Now imagine this same energy, language, and structure…
but built specifically around your offer for Black Friday or the holidays.

Example 2: Creator / Brand Promo

This second video has more of a personal + brand story feel.

It works perfectly when you want to:

• Put a face to the brand

• Make an announcement or push a new offer

• Build trust while still moving people to act

Again, the focus is the same:

• Clear message

• Tight edit

• Social-first format

• Built for our people, with our voice

So What Does the Kin360 Black Friday Package Actually Include?

If you run a Black-owned or culture-driven business and your content is not where you want it to be for Black Friday / Small Business Saturday / holiday season…

Here’s what I’m offering through Kin360 right now:

🧱 Kin360 “Start Smart” Black Friday Promo Package

You get:

• 2 short promo videos (20–30 seconds each)

• Captions you can literally copy-paste into IG/FB/TikTok

• A simple posting plan (what to post, when, and where)

• Light scripting / angle help so you’re not guessing what to say

• Turnaround in about 5–7 days once we have your info + assets

• Produced by under-25K Black creators who understand the culture and your audience

Flat rate: $649

This is for you if:

• You’re a Black-owned or culture-forward brand (restaurant, boutique, product, service, creative studio, etc.)

• You know you should be promoting more, but you’re already doing ten jobs

• You’d rather run the business and let someone else run the promos

How It Works

1. You raise your hand

   • Reply to this email with “PROMO”

   • Or hit the link: addyourlandingpagelinkhereadd your landing page link hereaddyourlandingpagelinkhere

2. Quick intake

   • I’ll send you a short form about your business, your audience, and your Black Friday / holiday offer.

3. We lock in the angle

   • Quick call or email back-and-forth to decide what the 2 videos will focus on.

4. My team gets to work

   • Our creators and editors build the promos, write the captions, and map the posting plan.

5. You get your promo kit

   • 2 videos + captions + posting plan delivered in a shared folder, ready to upload.

Why I’m Doing This

Kin360 sits inside the bigger vision for Kin Worldwide – a Black-owned media & tech ecosystem where:

• We don’t just appear in campaigns… we own the campaigns

• We don’t just trend on someone else’s platform… we build our own lanes

• We don’t just say “Buy Black”… we build the infrastructure that helps Black businesses actually grow

Content is part of that infrastructure.

So this Black Friday, I’m not just telling you to “show up.”
I’m offering to help you show up well.

If you’re already fully covered for content this season, I salute you.

If you’re reading this like, “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to figure this out,” then this is for you.

👉🏾 Reply “PROMO” to welcomehomekin@gmail.com

Either way, keep building.
We’re going to Own It All – one brand, one story, one campaign at a time.

Founded by DaVante’ Goins — known as #BlackAmericasArchitect — Kin’s mission is clear: to build the digital edition of Black Wall Street by uniting culture, ownership, and innovation under one roof.

“For too long, our people have been forced to build empires on rented land,” said Goins. “Kin changes that. We’re not asking anymore — we’re building it ourselves.”

What Kin Brings

• myKin: a private social media platform where creators, founders, and culture-drivers can connect and collaborate.

• Kin Creator OS: a section of myKin designed to help creators run their business, monetize their craft, and maintain ownership at every step.

• Kin+: the company’s media hub delivering culturally-forward news, insights, and original shows — including The Daily Plug, a daily creator and business news series.

What’s Next

• Founders Circle: Kin is inviting its first 100 members into the Founders Circle, offering exclusive benefits including early access to Kin Creator OS, a one-year membership, and VIP passes to KinFest 2026, the company’s first live festival.

• KinFest 2026: A three-day festival in Columbus, OH celebrating ownership, culture, and the future of the Black creator economy.

About Kin Worldwide

Kin Worldwide is a Black-owned digital media and technology company building the tools, platforms, and cultural ecosystem for creators and entrepreneurs to fully own their future. With the motto “You Don’t Just Belong — You Connect,” Kin is more than a platform — it’s a movement.

Media Contact:
Kin Worldwide Media Relations
📧 welcomehomekin@gmail.com

Let’s start with a question that’s gonna make some of y’all uncomfortable.

How do you have a million followers but can’t pay your rent on time?

It’s the great contradiction of our time. We see creators with massive online clout who are one bad month away from going broke. They’re drowning in influence but starved for capital. This isn’t a personal failure, Kinfolk. It’s a systemic one. It's the design of a system we call Digital Sharecropping.

Let's be clear on what this is: It’s a modern-day plantation where the fields are digital platforms, and the crop is your creativity. You labor on land you don’t own (Instagram, TikTok, YouTube) to produce value you don’t fully control or capture.

Don't believe me? Let's run the numbers. The average YouTuber with a million views might see $3,000 to $5,000. For a TikToker, it's pennies on the dollar. On Instagram, you're not getting paid unless you're hawking detox tea or pushing affiliate links in your bio. You’re not a partner; you’re the product.

You are a tenant. Period. You’re subject to the whims of an algorithmic landlord who can change the terms of your lease overnight. One algorithm shift, one shadowban, one "community guideline violation" on a post that was fine last week, and your entire business is on life support. You didn’t sign off on it, but you’re living with the consequences.

It ain’t just the up-and-comers, either. Veteran creators like Hank Green have openly admitted they can have a video go massively viral and still struggle to cover basic operational costs like healthcare for their team.

Let this sink in.

“If it ain’t your land, your list, or your link, you’re leasing your life out—one upload at a time.”

Nipsey & Jobs: The Blueprint in Stereo

The escape route from this trap wasn't drawn up in a Silicon Valley boardroom. The blueprint for real ownership was laid down in two very different hoods: Crenshaw and Cupertino.

This is the soul of the mission. Not just vibes—architecture.

First, you had Nipsey Hussle. The Marathon Continues wasn't just a movement; it was a masterclass in street-level vertical integration. He preached “All Money In” because it was a real strategy, not a slogan. Why sell your album through a label when you can sell your own $100 Mixtape direct to your core fans and keep every dollar? Why rent a retail spot when you can own the masters, own the Marathon store that sells the merch, and own the damn plaza the store sits in? He understood that the only way to win was to remove the middleman and own the entire value chain.

Then you had Steve Jobs. A world away, he was engineering the same principle with holistic, fanatical control. He didn’t just design the iPhone; he obsessed over the chip inside it, the iOS that ran it, the App Store that monetized it, and the Apple Store that sold it. Apple doesn’t just play in an ecosystem; they are the ecosystem. They are the landlord, the government, and the bank, all in one.

Listen, and listen good.

“Nipsey and Jobs spoke different languages, but they built the same damn building: a vertically integrated empire with no landlord but themselves.”

This isn't just a dope comparison. This is the code. And The Ownership Stack™ is the key that translates that code into a roadmap for every creator, artist, and builder ready to claim their sovereignty.

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Introducing: The Ownership Stack™

You can't scale freedom if you don't own the blueprint. Talk is cheap. You need a framework. A ladder.

The Ownership Stack™ is that ladder. Each rung represents a layer of control you must reclaim from the platforms and secure for yourself.

• Layer 1: Audience Ownership

  • The Move: Stop borrowing audiences from algorithms. Build direct, unbreakable relationships.

  • The Action: Your email list. Your SMS list. Your private community on a platform you control. This is your real follower count.

• Layer 2: Content/IP Ownership

  • The Move: Own your masters. Stop giving away your genius for free.

  • The Action: Register your trademarks and copyrights. Structure your deals to retain ownership. License your work with leverage, don't just hand it over.

• Layer 3: Platform Ownership

  • The Move: Stop being a tenant. Become the owner of the house.

  • The Action: Host your community on your own terms. Build your own app. License white-label tech. Create your own digital home base where you set the rules.

• Layer 4: Distribution Ownership

  • The Move: Control the pipes. Don't just make the content; decide how it travels.

  • The Action: Own your podcast's RSS feed. Drive traffic to your own website or app, not just a platform profile. Build syndication deals where you control the terms.

• Layer 5: Monetization Ownership

  • The Move: Fire the platform ad-revenue department. Build your own economy.

  • The Action: Sell your own products, services, and memberships. Create direct payment funnels. Stop relying on a fluctuating cut from a corporation that doesn't know your name.

• Layer 6: Data Ownership

  • The Move: Know your people better than the platforms do.

  • The Action: Use your own analytics. Understand your community’s behavior on your own terms. Build your own algorithm—one that serves your people, not just advertisers.

Algorithmic Addiction is a Death Trap

Let’s treat this next part like a public health warning, because it is.

The platforms have engineered an addiction. They’ve trained an entire generation of creators to chase the short-term dopamine hit of virality over the long-term equity of value. You're rewarded for being loud, not for being essential. You're celebrated for being seen, not for being sustained.

Every time you change your content to please the algorithm, you’re giving up a piece of your sovereignty. You become a puppet dancing on strings held by a machine designed to keep you running in a hamster wheel.

The case studies write themselves. You see TikTokers with 10 million followers go broke the second the trends shift, while Substack writers with 10,000 true fans on an email list are building multi-six-figure businesses. One is an influencer. The other is an institution.

Remember this. Burn it into your brain.

“If the algorithm decides your destiny, it already owns your future.”

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From Digital Sharecropper to Digital Sovereign

This is where we pivot. This is where hope meets the hustle. The exodus isn’t about running from something; it’s about building towards something.

The Digital Sovereign is the creator who understands the blueprint. They are taking back their masters, their messaging, and their money. They are applying the principles of vertical integration—not as a tech giant or a rap mogul—but as a sovereign individual.

They are building their Ownership Stack, layer by layer. They are transforming their audience into a community, their content into assets, and their influence into an independent economy.

This isn't a fantasy. This is the work. And platforms like Kin, and the entire Kin Worldwide ecosystem, are being purpose-built to serve as the arsenal for this movement. We’re not just creating an escape from exploitation; we are building the launchpad for empire-building.

A Manifesto Moment: The Declaration of Digital Independence

So we end where we must begin: with a declaration. This is the line in the sand. This is the moment we stop asking for a seat at their table and start building our own house.

We are no longer just talent. We are builders, owners, architects.

We will no longer rent space on platforms that profit from our presence while limiting our power.

We will no longer trade ownership for likes, or equity for exposure.

We are not influencers—we are institutions in the making.

This is not rebellion. This is reprogramming.

This is the Exodus.

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Let’s unpack what’s going on, why it matters for Black folks, and what history tells us about how this story plays out.

The Breakdown: What’s in the Bill?

In a tight 215-214 vote, House Republicans passed what they’ve dubbed the “One Big Beautiful Bill.” Beyond tax cuts and spending slashes, it includes a lesser-known provision: limiting judges’ ability to enforce contempt of court orders — unless a financial bond was posted ahead of time.

If you’re like, “Wait… what’s a contempt order?” — it’s how courts enforce their rulings when people (especially government officials) ignore them. Think of it as the court saying, “We meant what we said.”

Now imagine courts saying that to ICE or DHS over illegal deportations — but with this new law, the judge’s power could be blocked if no money was posted beforehand.

And the kicker? This rule would apply retroactively. That means past violations of court orders — including ongoing contempt threats against Trump-era deportation efforts — could suddenly be swept under the rug.

Count Me In

Why This Matters: A Look Back to Look Ahead

Here’s the thing: courts have always played a critical role in defending the civil rights of Black people in this country.

From Brown v. Board of Education to the federal orders enforcing school integration, it was judicial contempt power that forced states to comply. Judges jailed segregationist governors and fined school boards who defied rulings.

Now, imagine if they couldn’t do that because plaintiffs didn’t pay a bond upfront.

Let’s call it what it is: a rollback of judicial power that has historically been vital to protecting our rights.

So Why Now?

This isn’t just about process. It’s about power. The courts have become one of the last remaining checks on a political movement increasingly comfortable ignoring democratic norms — and targeting the rights of immigrants, voters, and yes, Black communities.

Several judges are currently weighing contempt charges against Trump officials for defying rulings tied to deportations and constitutional violations.

With 2024’s election echoing in the rearview and Trump’s political machine revving back up, this bill feels like a preemptive strike — a shield against legal accountability.

More Information

The Hidden Cost: Making Justice Too Expensive

Rep. Joe Neguse, a Black Democrat from Colorado, nailed it: “We’ve never said to American citizens that in order to vindicate their rights in federal court, they must pay a fee.”

But under this law, that’s exactly what would happen.

Imagine someone challenging a policy that violates their constitutional rights — now they’re told they can’t enforce a ruling unless they front a bond. That’s not access to justice. That’s justice for sale.

And for Black folks already navigating systemic economic and legal barriers, it’s another wall in the way.

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What We Can Do

Let’s be clear: this bill isn’t law yet. It’s headed to the Senate, where it’ll need serious support to pass. But we’ve seen how fast things can move when folks aren’t paying attention.

Here’s what you can do:

• Call your Senators and demand they vote no on any bill that strips courts of their enforcement power.

• Support organizations that are fighting in the courts and in Congress.

• Talk about this. Share this post. Educate your people. We are our best defense.

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Final Thought

Judges don’t always get it right. But they’ve often been the last line of defense when politics fail us. Weakening that line — especially now — isn’t just about Trump or immigration. It’s about whether the courts can still stand up when power overreaches.

We’ve been here before. And history shows that when Black folks mobilize, speak out, and organize, the arc of justice bends back.

Don’t sleep on this.

✊🏾 Stay woke, stay bold, stay together.

On May 15, a 35-year-old white mother in North Carolina, Samantha Spoor, boarded a school bus full of middle schoolers, unleashed a profanity-laced tirade, and—most chilling of all—called a Black student the N-word on video. She’s since been arrested and charged, but here’s what she told the media:

“I wouldn’t use the same language. But I’d do it all over again to protect my kid.”

Let that sink in.

Spoor claimed her behavior wasn’t about race—just about protecting her child from bullies. But her words, captured on a now-viral video, tell a different story. Threats. Curses. A racial slur so vile it stings every time we hear it. And somehow, she still doesn’t think it was racially motivated?

This isn’t just a case of one woman losing control. This is about a system that lets whiteness weaponize “concern for safety” while Black children bear the brunt of the harm.

This Ain’t New: A Legacy of Racial Double Standards in Schools

Black students have long faced higher rates of discipline, harsher consequences, and more surveillance than their white peers. And incidents like this reveal how quickly Black children are dehumanized—even by adults outside their schools.

Imagine the trauma of being a Black child on that bus, targeted by a stranger, called out your name, and having no one step in—not even the bus driver. The driver did file a police statement later, but during the incident? Silence.

We know that silence isn’t neutral. It’s complicity.

Spoor’s case is especially painful because she’s not new to this. According to the bus driver’s account, she’s done this before. This wasn’t a one-time lapse in judgment. This is a pattern.

Count Me In

Why “Intent” Doesn’t Matter

Let’s be clear: You don’t have to intend to be racist for your actions to do harm. Spoor’s claim that it wasn’t “racially motivated” rings hollow when she chose to use a slur that has been used to terrorize Black people for centuries.

Black folks know that “I’m not racist” has become the go-to shield for people who want to avoid accountability while still doing racist things.

Intent doesn’t erase the impact.

Where Do We Go From Here?

Currituck County Schools says they’re reviewing their safety protocols. But this moment calls for more than just a policy tweak. It demands a deeper reckoning with how racism plays out in school systems—and in the very adults entrusted to protect children.

Here’s what needs to happen next:

• Anti-racism and trauma-informed training for all school staff, including bus drivers.

• A zero-tolerance policy for verbal abuse and hate speech on school grounds and transportation.

• Counseling and support for the children affected—especially those who were directly targeted.

• A community-wide conversation about accountability and protection that doesn’t come at the cost of Black children’s safety.

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A Final Word

To the young girl who was called the N-word and kept her composure: We see you. You deserved protection and peace, not pain. To her mother: Thank you for speaking up. This fight is far from over.

And to the rest of us: Let’s not let this moment pass without action. Talk to your kids. Check your school board. Hold systems accountable.

We’ve seen what silence does. Let’s make some noise.

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Stay Loud. Stay Vigilant. Stay Rooted.

If this story moved you, share it. Talk about it. And let’s keep building a world where Black children are not only protected but deeply valued.

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The 2025 Columbus Arts Festival is back and bigger than ever, transforming the downtown riverfront into a creative wonderland of visual arts, music, fashion, food, and immersive experiences. From June 6–8, the city comes alive with more than 230 artists, interactive installations, live performances, and something new around every corner. This is your festival. Here’s why you don’t want to miss it.

What’s New for 2025?

This year’s festival is bursting with fresh features that make it more inclusive, engaging, and interactive than ever before:

• Big Local Arts Stage Lighting & Projection Show
  Don’t miss this mind-blowing visual experience from Mural ReMix and Bell Tree Productions—an electrifying fusion of light, color, and projection mapping that will transform your evening on the riverfront.

• Art Garden by Franklinton Arts District
  Take a stroll through this lush, creative space near the Rhinegeist Beer Garden in West Bank Park. It’s a celebration of urban nature and artistry with live mural painting, interactive art panels, and QR-code-enabled purchases of featured artwork.

• Expanded Accessibility Features
  The festival’s new online accessibility map and social story help ensure that everyone can experience the magic, regardless of ability or familiarity with large events. These tools are designed to make your visit smooth, informed, and stress-free.

Live, Local, and Electric: Over 230 Artists & Performers

You’ll discover talented artists from 31 states and Ontario, Canada, along with 20 up-and-coming creators through the Emerging Festival Artist program. This initiative empowers local talent, providing vital exposure and resources for creatives with limited festival experience.

From handcrafted jewelry to bold street-style paintings, the artist booths offer something for every vibe and every budget.

Plus, the Big Local Arts Village, supported by Bank of America, is your one-stop shop for Columbus creativity—featuring more than 80 local artists and live demos of everything from Japanese calligraphy to blacksmithing. Meanwhile, the Big Local Arts Stage bumps with Columbus-based DJs, bands, poets, and more.

Family-Friendly & Full of Fun

The Kids Hands-On Activities Village near COSI is a must for families. Think: magnet making, puppet design, artist trading cards, and even cookie decorating with edible ink. Local legends like BalletMet, Columbus Children’s Theatre, and the Columbus Zoo are on-site with interactive, educational fun.

Need more? Try out one of the “in-depth” paid workshops like guided painting or bouquet building with local floral artists.

Mark Your Calendars

🗓️ Festival Dates & Hours:

• Friday, June 6: 11 a.m. – 10 p.m.

• Saturday, June 7: 10 a.m. – 10 p.m.

• Sunday, June 8: 10 a.m. – 5 p.m.
  (Note: Artist booths close one hour earlier on Friday and Saturday.)

🎧 Want a Sneak Peek?

Check out the Bicentennial Park Stage Spotify Playlist for a taste of the musical vibes waiting for you.

This isn’t just an arts festival—it’s a celebration of who we are as a city. Whether you’re coming for the art, the music, the food trucks, or the family-friendly fun, the 2025 Columbus Arts Festival invites you to experience the richness of community through creativity.

Come curious. Leave inspired.

👉 Visit columbusartsfestival.org to plan your weekend, sign up to volunteer, or explore the accessibility tools.

Let's Go!

This post is sponsored by the Greater Columbus Arts Council, proud producers of the Columbus Arts Festival. We believe in the power of the arts to bring people together, spark change, and build community.

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We’ve been deep in our Chi-Town bag over the last 24 hours — and that’s no accident. Chicago’s been at the center of a storm that’s about way more than local politics or budget line items. They’ve got a hellah lot going on that speaks to national patterns of injustice, negligence, and community resilience that Black folks from the South Side to the South Bronx need to be watching.

This ain’t just “Chicago news.”
This is our news.

From massive settlements tied to wrongful convictions and police brutality to systemic failures in emergency services, what’s happening in the Windy City is a case study in what happens when accountability is delayed, denied, and deflected. We’re talking about lives lost, decades stolen, and communities continually forced to pay — with their wallets and their well-being.

So yes, we’re staying on this beat.
Because when Black stories get brushed off as “local,” the harm gets buried and the lessons get lost.

And Kinfolk, we’re not letting that happen.

“I’m trying not to let the anger poison my soul.”

That’s what one of the two Black men who just spent 35 years in prison for a crime they didn’t commit told the press this week, as Chicago approved a $20 million settlement for each of them. But how do you put a price on lost decades, stolen dignity, or community trauma?

This week, the City of Chicago authorized $87.9 million in settlements — the latest payouts in what’s become a relentless financial hemorrhage tied to police misconduct, bureaucratic neglect, and policy failure. And once again, it’s the taxpayers footing the bill — especially the Black and Brown communities that have long borne the brunt of systemic harm.

Count Me In

The Faces Behind the Payouts

Let’s not let the headlines reduce these cases to dollar signs:

• Two Black men, wrongfully convicted in a 1986 arson case, tortured into confessions by CPD, and locked away for 35 years. Their freedom is fresh, but their pain runs deep.
  → Settlement: $20M each.

• Brianna Keys, a Black woman in the midst of a mental health crisis, left to wander barefoot in winter after calls to 911 and 311 failed. She lost both legs to frostbite.
  → Settlement: $5M.

• Dozens of victims of disgraced CPD Sgt. Ronald Watts, whose corruption and false drug charges devastated communities in the Ida B. Wells projects.
  → Another $1.2M in payouts. Over 200 cases remain pending.

• A global private equity firm (yes, including investors from Abu Dhabi) leased Chicago’s parking meters under a now-infamous 75-year deal. Because COVID-era policy changes cut their profits, they’re getting...
  → Settlement: $15.5M.

Context is Everything: How We Got Here

Let’s be real: These aren’t just bad decisions or “tragic mistakes.” This is the price of a city choosing, for decades, to protect power over people.

Chicago has a documented history of police brutality and corruption — from Jon Burge’s torture ring in the '80s and '90s to the Watts scandal in the 2000s. The courts, city hall, and previous mayors looked away or buried the truth. Now, under Mayor Brandon Johnson, the city is being forced to confront what’s been ignored for too long.

Johnson is clear on who he thinks is to blame:

“We had brutality that existed. It was ignored. It was covered up.”
— Mayor Brandon Johnson, May 2025

But here’s the problem — while the mayor rightly acknowledges the sins of the past, our communities continue to live with the consequences right now. And we’re not just talking about settlements. We’re talking about a broken system that still hasn’t been dismantled.

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The Cost to Us — and What’s Not Being Said

Chicago budgeted $82 million for legal settlements in 2025. Just five months in, that money is gone. Now we’re pushing triple that number. What happens when we need funding for violence prevention, housing, or mental health services and the coffers are empty?

The bigger question is this: How much longer are we going to keep paying for a system that refuses to change?

Ald. Ray Lopez said it loud at City Hall:

“We are not God’s piggy bank.”

But that’s exactly how this city treats its people — especially Black people — when it comes time to clean up institutional messes. Always the ones paying. Rarely the ones prioritized.

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This Isn’t Just About Chicago

What’s happening here isn’t unique. From Baltimore to Los Angeles, cities across the U.S. are bleeding out billions in misconduct settlements, most tied to police violence against Black and Brown people. It’s a pattern, not a coincidence.

And it’s deeper than money. It’s about accountability. It’s about healing. It’s about justice not just being paid out, but practiced.

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So, What Do We Do?

1. Know the names. Don’t let these stories get reduced to dollar figures. Learn about the cases. Share them. Keep the people — not just the payouts — at the center.

2. Demand transparency. Support civilian oversight boards. Push for public access to police misconduct records. Pressure your local reps to pass reforms with teeth.

3. Reimagine safety. Back community-led alternatives to policing. Invest in mental health response teams. Support restorative justice programs.

4. Vote accordingly. Local elections matter. Who you put in office affects how — and if — justice is served.

📢 Kinfolk, Let’s Keep It Real.

We can’t afford to get numb to these headlines. The pain is real. The history is heavy. But so is our power.

If we want to stop the cycle of payouts, we need to stop the violence that precedes them — not just on the street, but in the system.

🖤 Stand in truth. Fight for justice. Push forward — together.

Kin+ is where Black futures, history, and truth meet.

If this piece moved you, share it. Drop a comment. Bring this convo to your people.
We’re building something real — and we need each other.

📬 Subscribe for more reporting that speaks to us and for us.

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Sources Cited & Referenced

1. Chicago Sun-Times

   • Spielman, Fran. “Taxpayers hit with another $87.9M in settlements backed by City Council.” May 21, 2025.

2. CBS Chicago (WBBM-TV)

   • Ty, Chris. “City Council Approves Nearly $80 Million in Settlements.” May 21, 2025.

3. WTTW Chicago

   • Myers, Heather Cherone. “Final Tally: Chicago Taxpayers Spent at Least $107.5M to Resolve Police Misconduct Lawsuits in 2024.” February 10, 2025.

4. Chicago Reader

   • Meador, R. L. Coverage on CPD misconduct, wrongful convictions, and Ronald Watts’ scandal.

5. The Marshall Project

   • Investigative reporting on police corruption and wrongful convictions in Chicago.

6. Cook County State’s Attorney Office Press Releases

   • Official announcements regarding exonerations and convictions tied to CPD misconduct.

With hurricane season at our doorstep, a quiet emergency is brewing that could devastate communities already living on the edge. At the heart of it is FEMA—the very agency meant to help us when the winds roar and the waters rise. Right now, FEMA is broke, broken, and being politically bludgeoned, and it's Black communities that stand to lose the most.

“FEMA is going to fail this summer.”

That’s not hyperbole. That’s a direct quote from Rep. Jared Moskowitz, a Florida Democrat who used to run the state’s emergency management. He sounded the alarm in a recent House Rules Committee hearing, warning that due to Trump-era funding freezes and bureaucratic mismanagement, FEMA may not be able to function when disaster strikes.

States are heading into hurricane season without knowing if they’ll even get federal disaster declarations. Cities can’t move money because they don’t know if they’ll be reimbursed. It’s paralysis by policy—and it’s dangerous.

“We’re trying to make FEMA faster,” Moskowitz said. “Instead, they’ve turned it into Newark Airport—it’s going to fail this summer.”

And let’s be real: when FEMA fails, it’s Black folks who suffer first and hardest.

Count Me In

Leadership Vacuum + Budget Cuts = A Perfect Storm

Under the current administration, FEMA is unraveling:

• Sixteen senior officials with decades of experience just quit.

• The agency's strategic plan focused on equity and climate resilience? Scrapped.

• A proposed $646 million budget cut is on the table.

• The Building Resilient Infrastructure and Communities (BRIC) program—which could have helped vulnerable neighborhoods withstand future storms—has been killed off.

The new acting FEMA chief? No experience in emergency management. It’s like handing the keys to an ambulance to someone who doesn’t know how to drive.

Meanwhile, Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem (yes, that Kristi Noem) has been accused of using FEMA like a piggy bank for unrelated agencies. The result? The very programs designed to make disaster response faster and fairer are being hollowed out.

The Risk Is Real—and Personal

Moskowitz warned that if FEMA fails, it won’t just be an administrative nightmare. It’ll be financial ruin.

“Without FEMA, Louisiana goes bankrupt. Mississippi goes bankrupt. Alabama goes bankrupt,” he said. And for Black folks living in those states, where poverty rates are already higher and infrastructure is weaker, it could mean years of displacement, unemployment, and trauma.

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Honoring Their Memory

A joint celebration of life for Alexus and JR was held on May 21 at East Feliciana STEAM Academy, where Alexus had been a dedicated educator. The ceremony served as a testament to their love, commitment, and the indelible impact they had on their community.

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What Do We Do Now?

Let’s be clear: waiting for a broken system to save us has never been our move. And we can’t start now.

Here’s how we prepare:

• Get Local: Connect with community-based organizations doing disaster prep work. Black churches, mutual aid networks, and grassroots organizers have always led in times of crisis.

• Push Policy: Demand your local reps fight to restore FEMA’s budget and independence. The call to move FEMA out of DHS is gaining steam—support it.

• Tell Our Stories: Don’t wait for mainstream media to cover our pain. Share what’s happening in your neighborhood, your family, your city. Our visibility is our power.

• Plan Ahead: Know your evacuation routes, stock emergency supplies, and check on elders and neighbors. We can’t afford to be caught unprepared.

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Final Word: We Know the Storm Is Coming

Our history is filled with storms—literal and metaphorical. And through every one, we’ve survived, rebuilt, and resisted.

But this time, the federal safety net is unraveling right before our eyes. FEMA may be failing, but we don’t have to. If anything, now’s the time to double down on our strength, our community, and our collective voice.

Because if the government won’t save us, we’ll save each other—just like we always have.

Stay ready. Stay loud. Stay connected.

💬 What’s your community doing to prepare for hurricane season? Drop it in the comments. Let’s share tools, resources, and game plans.

🖤 Subscribe for more coverage on politics, power, and the stories that matter to us.

Sources for Further Reading:

• Mediaite: House Democrat Warns FEMA Will Fail This Summer

• Reuters: FEMA Officials Exit Amid Trump Targeting

• Axios: Trump Cuts to FEMA

• Wired: FEMA’s Strategic Plan Canceled

• FEMA: Termination of Politicized Grant Program

KinFam, Welcome Home!

GOOD MORNING, FAMILY —

They told us to wait our turn. Then told us we were unqualified.
Now that we’re in the room, they’re calling the feds.

This ain’t just about Brandon Johnson. This is about who gets to govern Black cities—and what happens when we demand more than photo ops and trickle-down justice.

Today, we’re breaking down how a Black mayor, a far-right reporter, and the Department of Justice just turned a hiring conversation into a civil rights showdown.

But trust—we got the receipts, the rhythm, and the rallying cry.
Because we know: When they criminalize Black leadership, they’re afraid of what it unlocks.

Welcome to The Morning Trap.
Let’s get into it.

🎤 Join the #KinFam

When you ride with the #KinFam, you’re fueling independent, Black-owned media that speaks for us, to us, and with us. Your membership funds the deep dives, the do-something links, and the audio drops coming this spring.

👉 Become a Member | 🎙️ Be the Mic:

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Founders Circle Roll Call

If you know Black media is sacred infrastructure—not just content, but culture—step into our Founders Circle. This one’s for the day-ones, the fund-the-freedom folks, the legacy protectors.

Founders receive:

• 🎟️ Early access to exclusives

• 🗣️ Roundtable invites + live salons

• 🧥 Merch that hits different

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Help Build the Mic. Apply Here: Click Here

Count Me In

🎯 TOP TRAP – They Call It ‘Black Power,’ We Call It Representation

“Why are you a racist?” — That’s the question a far-right reporter hurled at Chicago Mayor Brandon Johnson for hiring Black people in a Black city.

📌 Quick Recap:

• The DOJ launched a civil rights investigation into Chicago’s hiring practices under Mayor Johnson, allegedly prompted by his public praise of Black leadership.

• At a press conference, right-wing provocateur William J. Kelly accused Johnson of “Black power rhetoric” and asked him why he was “a racist.”

• This all stems from Johnson's unapologetic stance that Chicago should look like its people—Black, working-class, and rooted in equity.

🗣️ Trap Quote of the Day:

“Since when is hiring Black people a federal offense.”

THE TRAP BREAKDOWN – “Black Leadership Ain’t a Crime”

🎤Intro Take:

Chicago’s mayor is under fire not for corruption, not for cronyism, but for giving Black folks a seat at the damn table. And now, the Department of Justice is knocking, asking if inclusion itself is discrimination.

📚Backstory:

Let’s get this straight—Title VII of the Civil Rights Act prohibits hiring based on race. It was designed to protect Black folks, not to be weaponized against us. But ever since Black Power became Black policy, the backlash has been swift and calculated—from affirmative action bans to DEI rollbacks.

💸 The Players:

• William J. Kelly: MAGA-aligned ex-mayoral candidate turned clout-chasing reporter.

• DOJ Civil Rights Division: Now led by a right-leaning appointee, Harmeet Dhillon, who’s made moves aligning with conservative priorities.

• Mayor Brandon Johnson: Progressive, Black, and catching hell for building a team that reflects Chicago’s Black majority.

🔁 The Pattern:

This ain’t just about Chicago. It’s part of a nationwide right-wing crusade to paint Black leadership as reverse racism. They did it to Black judges, Black professors, and now Black mayors. Power-sharing scares them more than power abuse ever did.

📣 Kinfolk Need to Know:

They don’t hate racism—they hate when it’s not working in their favor.

♻️ TRAP TALK: Screenshots That Slap

Viral quote:

“Your Black power rhetoric is bringing the city backwards.”

📊 Stat That Hits:

34% of Johnson’s staff is Black in a city that’s 30% Black.

🧾 Receipt That Flips It:

The same week the feds investigate a Black mayor for “Black hiring,” they said nothing about corporations scrapping DEI roles by the hundreds. Silence is consent—and consent ain’t neutral.

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🔨 DO SOMETHING – Today’s Move

✅ Direct Action:

Call Out The DOJ

• Let the Civil Rights Division know Black hiring is not discrimination—it’s overdue reparative justice.

• 🔗Comment on the DOJ Civil Rights Division here.

💬 Caption:

Post this in your fam group chat right now:

The feds are investigating Black leadership. We got receipts. We got responses. We need your voice.

✊🏽 CULTURE REWIND – Don't Just Inform, Inspire (IGNITE!)

🖼️ Memory:

“The most disrespected person in America is the Black woman. The most unprotected person in America is the Black woman.” — Malcolm X

💼Spotlight:

BlackRoots Alliance is a frontline Chicago organization building Black political power, not just for the moment—but for the long haul. Born out of the recognition that Black liberation requires more than just resistance, they work to transform the systems that have historically kept Black communities at the margins.

They’re not a nonprofit in name only—they're a people’s HQ for justice, community defense, and strategic organizing.

What They Do:

• Policy & Power Building: From city hall to the block, BlackRoots is developing policy campaigns that are rooted in abolitionist values and led by everyday Chicagoans.

• Mutual Aid + Safety Work: They organize alternatives to policing that center healing, not punishment, and are part of citywide coalitions reimagining public safety without state violence.

• Political Education: Through teach-ins, leadership development, and radical curriculum, they raise political consciousness rooted in Black radical traditions.

• Organizing the Organizers: Many of the most effective organizers in the city have come through BlackRoots. They’re not gatekeeping movement work—they’re multiplying it.

🎤 Pull-Out Line:

Equity is not exclusion. It’s correction.

Join Now

They want us quiet, compliant, and grateful for crumbs.
But we ain’t just eating—we’re building the table, picking the menu, and inviting our people to lead.

Brandon Johnson didn’t get attacked for breaking the law—he got attacked for breaking the mold.
And if that makes them nervous? Good.
That means the power’s shifting.

So whether you organize in Jordans or church shoes, in cubicles or community halls—keep pushing.
Keep receipts. Keep calling it what it is.
And don’t let them rewrite the rules while we’re finally in the game.

📲 Post the action. 🗣️ Share the trap. ✊🏾 Stand in truth.
We don’t whisper through oppression—we amplify through it.

Catch you tomorrow, same time, same fight.
This is The Morning Trap—the people’s mic.

We out. 🎛️

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Tragic Sequence of Events

On the early morning of May 16, tragedy struck. Around 2 a.m., Alexus was driving her 2013 Toyota Highlander northbound on LA 67 near Lemon Road in East Baton Rouge Parish when she lost control of the vehicle. The SUV veered off the road, struck a culvert, and overturned. Alexus, who was not wearing a seatbelt, sustained fatal injuries and was pronounced dead at the scene. (Source)

Upon receiving the devastating news, JR immediately set out to reach the crash site. Tragically, at approximately 3:45 a.m., while driving his 2016 Chevrolet Camaro southbound on LA 67 near Idlewild Road in East Feliciana Parish, JR lost control of his vehicle. The car exited the roadway, struck a tree, and JR, who was also not wearing a seatbelt, was ejected and pronounced dead at the scene. (Source)

Count Me In

A Community in Mourning

The sudden loss of both Alexus and JR has left their families and the broader community in profound grief. Sandra Collins, JR's mother, expressed the deep sorrow felt by both families:

“He loved Alexus, as well as everybody else who knew her. To know her was to love her.”

Dominique Lee, Alexus's sister, shared her heartbreak:

“Losing Lexus just different. It was a different feeling, and it's like I know a part of me gone.”

Despite the overwhelming tragedy, both families are united in their commitment to Gabriel's well-being. Sandra Collins emphasized their dedication:

“Even though they left a child behind, we have a great support system. The two families will blend, and we will do whatever it takes to give him a good life.”

Reflecting on Broader Implications

This tragic incident underscores the critical importance of road safety measures, including the consistent use of seatbelts. According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA), seatbelt use is one of the most effective ways to save lives and reduce injuries in crashes. In 2021 alone, seatbelts saved an estimated 14,955 lives in the U.S.

Moreover, the loss of Alexus and JR highlights the need for community support systems for children who experience such profound losses. Gabriel’s situation is a poignant reminder of the importance of accessible mental health resources and support networks for grieving families.

More Information

Honoring Their Memory

A joint celebration of life for Alexus and JR was held on May 21 at East Feliciana STEAM Academy, where Alexus had been a dedicated educator. The ceremony served as a testament to their love, commitment, and the indelible impact they had on their community.

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What’s at Stake for Us?

What’s happening to Brandon Johnson isn’t just a Chicago issue — it’s a signal to every Black mayor, superintendent, or community leader: “Don’t get too Black.”

But here’s the thing: We’re not going backward.

This moment calls for us to double down on local power. We must support our Black leaders especially when they’re unapologetically centering our communities. Because if we don’t defend them, the forces trying to erase us will only get bolder.

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Call to Action:

In the wake of this tragedy, community members are encouraged to support organizations that provide assistance to children who have lost parents, such as local grief counseling centers and child welfare services. Additionally, promoting road safety education and advocating for the consistent use of seatbelts can help prevent future tragedies.

Let us honor the memories of Alexus and JR by coming together to support their son, Gabriel, and by fostering a community committed to safety, compassion, and resilience.